We
read him the paragraph, and preciously angry he was. "Id is," he cried,
"the tables" (or "de DABELS," as he called them),--"de horrid dabels;
gom viz me to London, and dry a slate-table, and I vill beat you."
We all roared at this; and the end of the dispute was, that, just to
satisfy the fellow, I agreed to play his Excellency at slate-tables, or
any tables he chose.
"Gut," says he, "gut; I lif, you know, at Abednego's, in de Quadrant;
his dabels is goot; ve vill blay dere, if you vill." And I said I would:
and it was agreed that, one Saturday night, when Jemmy was at the Opera,
we should go to the Baron's rooms, and give him a chance.
We went, and the little Baron had as fine a supper as ever I saw: lots
of Champang (and I didn't mind drinking it), and plenty of laughing and
fun. Afterwards, down we went to billiards. "Is dish Misther Coxsh, de
shelebrated player?" says Mr. Abednego, who was in the room, with one
or two gentlemen of his own persuasion, and several foreign noblemen,
dirty, snuffy, and hairy, as them foreigners are. "Is dish Misther
Coxsh? blesh my hart, it is a honor to see you; I have heard so much of
your play."
"Come, come," says I, "sir"--for I'm pretty wide awake--"none of your
gammon; you're not going to book ME."
"No, begar, dis fish you not catch," says Count Mace.
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